


(Formerly Known As) Cassandra

by yoshizora



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blue Lions Route, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Catherine and Shamir take a trip to the Charon estate.
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52
Collections: Cathmir Week 2020





	(Formerly Known As) Cassandra

**Author's Note:**

> i wasn't quite sure how to wrap up this piece with an overall sense of coherency, but also it was like 4am when i finished this up
> 
> happy cathmir week!

The estate of House Charon stretches as far as the eye can see, gentle slopes of dry grass and twisted trees clinging to the last of their autumn leaves. Up ahead, only a few minutes walk away, a proud manor stands stark against that cold landscape. A flock of crows herald their arrival, too distant for anyone else to hear.

Catherine tugs her horse to a halt. Shamir does the same.

“You don’t have to accompany me,” she says, and Shamir knows it’s likely her final warning. “I can speak to Lord Charon by myself.”

Shamir says nothing, though she notes that Catherine’s arms are trembling ever so slightly, gauntlets squeezing tightly around the reins. She tries to put on a reassuring smile, but all she can manage is something that probably looks more like a grimace.

“If you didn’t want me to come along, you should have said so before we set out in the first place.”

“That’s not—“ Catherine bites her lip, looking down at the trampled dirt. “Never mind. Let’s just go. But let me do the talking, alright?”

“Sure.”

* * *

As loud and boisterous and obnoxious Catherine can be in her company, Shamir had never heard her speak of her family life nor background. Which suited her just fine, as someone who rarely speaks of her own past life before she joined the Knights of Seiros, but it hadn’t quite occurred to her how _strange_ it was. Around her, Catherine is like an open book with lively gestures and excited grins, but how much does Shamir _really_ know about her partner beyond what scant details she knows of the Duscur incident?

Everyone has things they’d rather not divulge no matter how much they trust the other person. Shamir knows how to respect that silence, so she never cared to pry.

Maybe she should have. Just a little.

Servants flit around them, a few with hovering hands ingrained with the habit of taking weapons and coats from weary guests, but Shamir refuses to allow any of them to touch her bow. Likewise, Catherine keeps one hand resting on Thunderbrand. It’s when one of them stammers out— _”Welcome home, Lady Cassandra_ ”— that old name, which ignites a simmering anger in Catherine’s eyes, when Shamir decides it truly would be wise to lay back and play the role of Catherine’s— _Lady Cassandra’s_ — mute companion.

Lord Charon regards them from the top of the stairs with steely eyes that don’t resemble Catherine’s at all. He looks no different from all the other nobles Shamir had the displeasure of meeting throughout her career as a mercenary.

“Cassandra. You’ve returned.”

Shamir isn’t sure if she should be kneeling, or what, but Catherine isn’t. Catherine keeps her chin tilted forward, some sort of defiance keeping her jaw taut.

“I don’t go by that name anymore.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says, slowly making his way down the stairs. “I assume you’re here to speak on behalf of…”

“King Dimitri.”

“A _dead man walking._ ”

“Oh, he’s definitely alive. _And_ kicking. Biting and scratching, too,” Catherine rolls the tension from her shoulders with a shrug. “You really accepted his rumored death so easily? I can’t believe you’d lose faith in your liege like that.”

“Don’t you dare speak of misplaced loyalties to me,” he seethes, knuckles white against the smooth mahogany railing. “You’re lucky I didn’t have you turned away before you could even cross into our territory.”

Shamir becomes all too aware of how he hasn’t even acknowledged her presence— little things to be grateful for, she supposes. Maybe she really shouldn’t have come along after all, if this trip was going to amount to a bunch of family drama being dredged up that she wants no part in.

But this is Catherine. This is Catherine’s childhood home. Shamir would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little curious about the world in which her partner had grown up in, even if she knew that world would be fraught with severed family ties and political conspiracies and barren trees that can’t grow fruit. The servants that had previously been flitting around them had all vanished, inexplicably, save for one butler who lingers by a hallway that leads who knows where.

“I’m not here as your estranged daughter, Lord Charon,” Catherine says, and for a moment, Shamir sees that steadfast knight she’s so personally familiar with. Not the displaced noblewoman who fled her home as a wanted fugitive, but the knight who would do anything for those she vowed loyalty to. “My name is Catherine, and I serve only Lady Rhea as a Knight of Seiros. The tides of war will surely be turning against the Empire with King Dimitri’s return. You _know_ why I’m here.”

Lord Charon’s jaw twitches. “Yes.”

“Can you spare the men for our cause, in that case?”

The rest of the conversation is a droning buzz that fades out of Shamir’s focus. That’s right, she isn’t here out of any sort of steadfast loyalty to the church nor Faerghus, not like Catherine. Talk of politics and the allocations of troops bores her. This isn’t where she belongs. A deeper instinct is telling her to get out, to escape from this cavernous room with its cold marble flooring and velvet tapestries, and return to the monastery. But… to do that would mean to leave Catherine alone here.

She can handle herself. That’s a lie. Shamir watches her back, taking note of her quickened breathing.

Their exchange ends without an answer. Lord Charon retreats back up the stairs and Shamir automatically follows Catherine as that lone butler leads them elsewhere. The halls are cramped and confining, just as uncomfortable as that cavernous foyer. Here and there is a suit of armor or a carved bust or a hanging portrait, but Shamir pays little attention to her surroundings. She quickens her pace to walk alongside Catherine, warily eyeing the butler.

“How long are these negotiations going to take?”

“I’ll have my old man change his tune about the Empire by breakfast. You’ll see,” Catherine smiles, but she doesn’t sound very certain.

* * *

Despite Lord Charon’s initial hostilities, at least he didn’t put them to the stables for the night. The guest quarters Shamir had been corralled into is about as ostentatious as she’d expected from one of the most prestigious noble houses of Faerghus; a bath had already been drawn beside the fireplace, even, the water steaming hot. As tempting as the bath is after a long day of riding by horse, Shamir isn’t quite in the mood to relax and allow herself to be engulfed in these unfamiliar luxuries.

The attendant left waiting outside the room stammers out something about how she’s not supposed to— well, Shamir doesn’t hear the rest of it, as she quickly turns the first corner down the hall before the poor girl can even run after her.

Catherine is wearing an embroidered tunic and cloth trousers when she opens her door. She doesn’t _look_ like Catherine, for a split second.

“Shamir—“ she opens and closes her mouth, blinking owlishly. “How did you find me?”

“Don’t underestimate a hunter’s instincts to track their prey,” Shamir replies, completely straight-faced. “That was sarcasm. I just asked a servant where your bedroom is.”

“Uh. Uh huh, right.” Catherine rubs the back of her neck, still blocking the doorway. A long, awkward stretch of silence passes between them, broken by Shamir speaking up with a note of impatience.

“Well? Can I come in or not?”

“The guest room isn’t plush enough for you?”

“… It’s cold.” That part isn’t entirely a lie. Catherine seems to buy that excuse, anyway; she shuffles back to allow Shamir to step in, _after_ glancing out the hall to make sure no one is watching. The door closes firmly behind her, and Shamir steels herself.

This is… Catherine’s childhood bedroom. Compared to those luxurious guest quarters offered to Shamir, this room is far smaller and plainly decorated in comparison. There’s a small bed with worn bedposts, a desk with dusty papers strewn across it (and now Thunderbrand placed upon them, as Catherine evidently didn’t think of tidying up) and an assortment of other bedroom essentials neatly tucked against the walls. The carpet beneath their feet is ragged and faded. Catherine had only bothered lighting one candle, but moonlight spills through spread shutters.

“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” Catherine says, moving past Shamir to sit on the bed. “It was pretty rude of me not to introduce you to my old man. I… kinda got swept up in the moment, and it didn’t even occur to me that he was ignoring you.”

“That’s not a problem. You know how much I hate talking to nobles.”

“Does that include me?” The corner of her mouth twitches.

Shamir slowly moves around the room and pauses to run a hand over the back of a wooden chair that had been built for a child to sit in rather than an adult. Still, she carefully takes a seat upon it anyway, if only to see if she could draw a comment from Catherine about how ridiculous she looks. Just something to reassure herself that the normal Catherine she knows is still here, anchored and not buried by Charon soil.

It doesn’t work. Catherine doesn’t even chuckle.

“I never put much thought into your noble heritage.” Shamir rests her arms on her knees, too far away to see the look on Catherine’s face. “You said it yourself— you’re not the daughter of the Lord of House Charon now, you’re a Knight of Seiros.”

“So we're on the same page, then. Great.”

“I’ll introduce myself tomorrow at breakfast, before you continue your negotiations,” Shamir says. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Catherine is silent for a moment, then she gestures for Shamir to come over. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

She obliges, suddenly wishing she had taken a bath and changed into a fresh set of clothes as she sits beside Catherine. Her bed is only half the size of the one that Shamir could have spent the night in, and barely big enough for two adults, but it hardly even matters. Wordlessly, she allows Catherine to help her remove her pauldron and belt and the small daggers hidden beneath her clothes, peeling off each layer until she can lie back without any pointy bits digging into her skin.

“Let’s not talk about the troops we need,” Shamir says, staring up at the ceiling. “Tell me about Cassandra Ruben Charon.”

“Alright, I can play along. Hm, where should I begin?” Catherine flops down beside her. “She might be just a little bothered that none of her brothers or sisters are around to give her a warm welcome home. But maybe that’s for the better, considering all the disgrace and shame she brought upon to the esteemed Charon name. They have their own lives to live out, and Cassandra had hers. It’s no skin off her nose.”

“Cassandra was… normal,” she continues, closing her eyes. “The life of a noble is a life built upon security at the price of pride and ego. Oh, Cassandra had _plenty_ of ego. She prided herself on being the most skilled swordsman among her siblings, on top of being one of the few to bear a Crest. The kid had a lot of friends, too, all of them graduates from the Blue Lions house just like her. Not only friends, but _connections._ What more could a noble want in life? She was pretty much set for life.”

“All these stories end up the same,” Shamir murmurs.

“… Yeah, you know how the rest of it goes. That divergent path that led me to the Church of Seiros isn’t one I regret taking,” Catherine firmly says. “I can’t imagine living a life without Lady Rhea.”

“Hm.”

“Or you, Shamir.”

“The flattery is unnecessary.”

“I mean it.” Her voice turns softer, quieter, and Shamir feels fingers moving through her hair. Ugh. It’s still unwashed, too, but Catherine clearly doesn’t mind. “I would’ve never been able to meet you, in that other life that belongs to Cassandra. This place... isn't my home. Not anymore.”

She supposes she can afford to be sentimental, when they’re lying together on Catherine’s childhood bed in a home she no longer has any attachment to. Shamir reaches up to grasp her hand. “No matter how the morning with your father turns out, I’m glad I came here with you, too.”

“Is it wrong for me to feel like this, when we're in the middle of a war?”

“You can afford to take your mind off of it, just for one evening.”

The night is turning cold, far colder than the winters they get at Garreg Mach. Catherine supposes she should go shut the windows, but she doesn’t want to get out of bed. Not right now. They move together, slowly, finding their way beneath the sheets to find warmth against each other.

* * *

Lord Charon is already seated for breakfast when they arrive; he notably eyes Thunderbrand, which rests at Catherine’s hip. “You can speak to me of borrowing armies _after_ I’ve enjoyed my meal, Cassandra.”

“Likewise,” Catherine cooly says. They pick seats halfway down the other side of the long dining table from Lord Charon, not too far away that they can’t be heard but not close enough to hear the sounds of his chewing.

The food, surprisingly, is nothing extravagant or unfamiliar from the usual fare provided at the monastery. Although— Shamir is less than pleased to see how much cheese is all over everything. Really, what’s the matter with Faerghus cuisine? They eat in silence, but the tension in the air is palpable.

“You there. Dagdan.”

Ah. She closes her eyes for a moment, bracing herself. Lord Charon is staring directly at her. “The name’s Shamir.”

“Yes, yes. You’re a Knight of Seiros as well, I assume?”

Catherine’s head is lowered as she eats, but Shamir doesn’t begrudge her for that. This is just one of those situations where Shamir would prefer to speak on her own behalf without interference, distaste for nobility disregarded. She sets down her fork, staring right back at Lord Charon. His eyes definitely aren’t like Catherine’s. For that, a part of her is grateful.

“That’s right. I serve the archbishop.”

“But you _are_ a Dagdan.”

“You’ve got a keen eye.”

“Why are you here, then?” He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, frowning. “What’s your stake in this war? Why did you accompany Cassandra all the way out here, if you’ll do nothing to argue for her cause?”

Well… because it’s simple, she thinks to herself. Sitting here, in this outlandish dining hall, with her partner at her side and a disgusting plate of bread and meats covered with cheese in front of her, makes it easy to forget that the Adrestian Empire is burning its way across Fódlan. She came here to learn about the woman once known as Cassandra Ruben Charon. Not to bring back troops of soldiers or debate with nobles, but to find some sense of closure in knowing there is no reconciliation between who Cassandra was and who Catherine, the Catherine she would trust her life with, is.

She’s here because she’s selfish. But aren't they all?

Catherine is looking at her questioningly now, but Shamir subtly shakes her head.

“Our goals are one and the same,” Shamir says, skewering a piece of cheese with her fork without the intention to actually eat it. “But Catherine is a big girl. She can get that army from you by herself, without my help. I’m just here because I felt like it.”

Oh, the look on Lord Charon’s face— the look on _Catherine’s_ face. Shamir smiles to herself, satisfied.


End file.
